


“The Smell of Cigarettes”

by AhmedA01



Category: 1960s Music Scene RPF, British Singers RPF, Music RPF, Rock Music RPF, The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:53:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1238836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AhmedA01/pseuds/AhmedA01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul muses to himself, post-coitus, the scent of cigarette smoke hanging in the air.</p>
            </blockquote>





	“The Smell of Cigarettes”

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Obviously. Unfortunately.

 

The sun dipped over the skyline, leaving in its wake a sky awash with obscure colours, the vibrancy of the bluish hues of day fading into pale vermilion and blurred amber. Like watercolours haphazardly strewn across a white canvas, I looked on as the hues slowly bled into one another, bringing forth the dark violets and blacks of nightfall, a fusion of intensity where earth meets sky. Dwindling sunlight flowing through the hanging of heavily laden trees above; the disfigured shadows bathing the curtained window as leaves, slowly turning a burnished gold, fall to the distant ground, the biting breeze sluggishly disturbing the insignificant piles of dead foliage, lining the walks with a crispness underfoot. Lazy summer days tapered into brisk autumn, darkness falling earlier than usual, driving those outside to seek shelter from the bitter chill that moved closer with each small gust of autumn wind.

I lounge lazily on the hard mattress of a small, cramped bed in an unnamed hotel, one in a vast array of undifferentiated hotels in undifferentiated American cities. The stale scent of cigarettes decorates the room, suspended close to the ceiling, moving lower with every breath of semi-fresh oxygen from the outside. I lie partially on my back, resting my tired body against the coarse pillows stacked up against the flimsy headboard, my eyes turned towards the window to my room, the view inside the chamber artfully concealed from the prying eyes of the impassioned fans below. The low sounds of disjointed shrieks of excitement, floating upwards, heard in small intervals from sunrise to sunset. My eyes drift downwards, a warm body lying alongside my own, an arm draped across my stomach, the fingers resting lightly on my thigh, giving of a comfortable warmth that spread in tendrils throughout, little shock waves traveling through my skin. John has always had that effect on me, the smallest, simplest touch always inciting something more. I look down at him, looking sweet and innocent when relaxed in sleep, dark locks of hair falling into his closed eyes, the sharp angles of his face softened. His lips a light dusting of rose against his fair skin, soft and yielding when under my own.

The slumbering body moves restlessly beside me, murmured words falling from John’s sleeping lips, speech with meaning only in the unconscious. Pins and needles run up the base of my right foot, the offending limb trapped underneath another’s leg and a collection of feathery blankets, pale and thin from too many spins in the washing machine. I try to move my body ever so slightly as the agitation grows infinitely more uncomfortable, being as careful as I can so as not to disturb my dreaming companion. What does he dream of, I often wonder? Does he dream of me? Of us? Shaking my head, as if that miniscule action will clear my thoughts, I resume trying to move slowly away. With each painstaking movement, I feel the thin layer of sweat that coats every inch of my lanky frame, an unpleasant sticky sensation that teases the senses, a souvenir left over from the continual barrage of blindingly bright stage lights. The liquid heat that comes in the form of those tiny light bulbs that lined the stadium, assaulting sensitive skin.

I run my hand along the veins of the arm that lies atop me, the feeling of smooth skin gently moving under my caress, a dull pulse throbbing against my fingertips. I grip John’s forearm in a fleeting moment of desperation, irrational fear grabbing hold for the briefest second, a momentary lapse of sanity that passes quickly as I gradually loosen my hold. What have I gotten myself into? Does any of this matter to him? Does it mean even half of what it means to me? With a sigh, I slowly lean towards the stout nightstand that stands bedside, searching blindly amidst the piles of cigarette butts, paper, and beer bottles that litters the top before finding a half empty box of cigarettes, a small silver lighter hidden within. I move my fingers along the smooth pewter of the lighter, cold unrelenting metal in contrast to the rough heated grooves of my skin. Placing the cigarette between my lips, I light it with a practiced flick of the wrist, a small burst of light illuminating my face. The gold flame bringing forth a spark of life as I light the end before settling back into the warm covers, tossing the lighter onto the floor as a line of the nicotine-laced smoke fills the air around me.

The smell of cigarettes.

The tangible odour wrapping around me like a comforting afghan. A familiar feeling, that reminds me of lazy school days spent hidden behind abandoned bomb shelters, illicit moments when the fear of getting caught induced more excitement than the act of smoking itself. Little schoolboys with faces scrubbed clean, navy blue shorts, white collared shirts and little navy blue caps balanced precariously over piled up hair, hiding hands tainted with tobacco in the pockets of regulation blazers, the gold decorative crest on the front pocket. Prepubescent voices low, fiendish giggles barely suppressed. Days of innocence long forgotten.

Now, the smell of cigarettes has taken on a wholly different connotation, signaling nights of illicit sexual activity, the scent hanging in the air with the palpable tang of sweat and sex. Bruised lips fused together in bitter agony, echoing a savage lust that dare not move past the barriers that we have erected, leaving even those who are closest to us unaware of what was going on just below the surface. Mouths opening in muted gasps of need, heavy breathing reverberating throughout the room, discarded cigarettes thrown into nearby ashtrays, the ends lightly glowing as the heady smoke infused the air. Lips grazing sensitive skin, necks arched deliciously, the nerves raw and yearning, the touch of a lover’s mouth its only source of survival. Gasps of pleasure heard softly, quickly silenced under a second pair of lips, the bittersweet taste of tobacco mingled with the sweetness of rum and cokes, fresh on a stroking tongue, languidly entering and withdrawing, a battle of two, each fighting for dominance.

Frantically we moved against each other, our naked bodies tangled amidst the coarse sheets, bare skin meeting bare skin, each touch, each caress sending sparks of white heat though my entire body. Expert fingers, slightly rough around the edges, inciting me to greater heights of passion, exploring with compelling eagerness, experienced hands under the guise of childlike wonder. Each touch lingering knowingly over the areas that would make me scream, a smile of pure satisfaction etched on a delightfully smug face.

Turnabout, however, had always been fair play.

Under the dim lights, the room cloaked in smoke, I circled my arm around a narrow waist, holding myself close, my body heated under an intense glare. Blunt fingernails running down an exposed chest, the smooth skin slick and gleaming in the low light, my fingers lightly skimming the surface before dangerously digging my nails in, leaving deep red welts in the sensitive skin. A surprised hiss of pain mingled with pleasure resonates loudly amidst the gasps and moans, murmured words of acquiescence and dominance heady in the bedroom. Callused hands moving downward, slowly, but surely, more cocksure of their destination than I. Hard and fast alternated with gentle and slow, gasps coming rapidly, breathing hard and laboured, trapped in heaving chests. We move faster, bodies melding, lips fused, caressing

Gasping hard, I lie back in bed, my breathing laboured as my eyes close, the images fresh in my mind words of endearment burning on my lips as memories of the sensations collide with my inflamed senses. With my cigarette still burning, I gently move the resting arm from my body as I untangle the sheets from legs, rubbing my foot with a slight amount of pressure before slipping from the bed. Silently I step towards the balcony and out onto the deck, closing the glass sliding door behind me, the unrelenting wood of the floorboards cold against my bare feet. I walk softly, each tread making the barest whisper of sound, as I stop in front of the railing, the cold metal of the bars biting into the soft skin of my hands as I lean forward heavily, my weary body gaining a small degree of comfort from the chilled alloy. The ash collects at the tip of my cigarette, dangling dangerously ere falling to the ground below, a smattering of gray dust fluttering with the breeze.

I think about me. I think about John. I think about the two of us. I think about the smell and the taste of the cigarettes on his tongue, on his body an intoxicating zest mixed with something that was purely John. Ambrosia for the gods.

Hazel eyes staring unseeingly into the falling darkness, looking deep into the twilight when the smell of cigarettes and beer wafts from behind me, accompanied by a pair of strong arms wrapping sweetly around my waist, the softest bush of lips on my bare shoulder.

“What are you doing out here? It’s cold,” a deep voice whispers softly, the warm breath tickling the outer shell of my ear.

Turning my head slightly, I look sideways at my lover as I lean back, gaining comfort from the bare chest behind me, enjoying the feel of John’s warm body against my own. “Just thinking,” I respond in a low voice before turning forward again.

“About what?” he asks in a voice tinged with curiosity, lightly muscled arms tightening around my waist.

I want to tell him everything. My doubts. My fears. My feelings. But as always, apprehension rears its ugly head. Looking down at his entwined hands as they continue to rest on my stomach, I murmur, “The smell of cigarettes.”

A low chuckle rumbles behind me, the sound of his laughter causing his chest to vibrate against my body. “You’re daft, you know that Paulie?” he exclaims softly, the grin on his face evident in his voice, his forehead coming to rest on my shoulder, his face buried in my neck.

“I know Johnny. I know,” I reply, a sad smile etched on my face as my tall frame stiffens, my hands tightening around the metal railing, the knuckles turning an unnatural white.

John raises his head and looks at me inquisitively for a fleeting second before removing his arms from around my waist, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder. “Come back inside, love,” he says, squeezing my shoulder for the briefest of moments before turning around, his dull footsteps echoing in the quiet night.

Taking one last drag from the slowly dying cigarette I drop it to the wooden floorboards, falling onto a bed of residual ash, glowing embers slowly ebbing in the evening chill, a single line of smoke rising up as I turn and follow John back into the room.


End file.
